'It's ruined,' he cries, his beady eyes darting angrily from side to side. 'The truck is a write off. Look at it!'
'Well, whatever happened?' I ask quietly.
'A wheel went over the side of your accursed slope. Didn't you see it?'
'It all happened so fast. We were in the house.'
He kicks a stone irritably at the wall and curses in local dialect.
'What did you need the tiles for anyway?'
He doesn't answer at first and then fixes me with an unrepentant stare. 'I don't need them. I just want what's mine.'
'But they're not yours,' I say simply.
His eyes simmer with resentment. 'You foreigners always want something for nothing, don't you?'
I observe Senyor Coll thoughtfully, and decide that since he is obviously delusional, it is probably best to leave him to mutter his dark and menacing incantations alone in the courtyard. So, ignoring him, I join Alan and together we scramble down the steep, narrow slope that links the courtyard to the field. It declines sharply and drops about three feet on either side into the field below. It is easy to see how, if driven slovenly, a large truck could lose control and flip sideways over the edge several feet into the mud. Given the severity of the accident, it is miraculous that Senyor Coll escaped injury. Maybe even the damned have guardian angels.
Alan reaches into the truck and manages to switch off the engine, retrieving Senyor Coll's mobile phone at the same time which has fallen from the upturned front seat on to a patch of grass.
'Well he's made quite a dent in the soil,' whispers Alan naughtily to me, as we survey the wreckage. 'Maybe planting the fruit trees won't be so difficult.'
I stifle a giggle and prod him in the ribs. We make our way back up into the courtyard where Senyor Coll petulantly snatches the mobile from Alan, stabbing at the digits whereupon a furious conversation ensues. Then he waits impatiently and in utter humiliation at the gate for his son.
'I've organised a crane,' says his brawny offspring when he arrives in a clapped out old van, 'It will cost a fair whack.'
I notice that the son is developing his father's girth and that two small, shifty eyes puncture his moist, flaccid face like sunken berries in dough.
'Oh dear,' I say. 'That's awful.'
'Get me my puros!' steams the father as he laboriously climbs up into the passenger seat of his son's vehicle. I watch his cowed son amble down into the field, squeeze under the wreckage and retrieve what is left of Senyor Coll's packet of cigars. Together they drive miserably away from the house and for a fleeting second I almost feel a stab of pity for naughty Senyor Coll.
Someone is frantically knocking on the door. It is Rafael. He bounds cheerfully into our entrada and sniffs loudly.
'I hear about the accident! Terrible,' he says with irony.
'Yes, dreadful,' I reply.
'Everyone is talking about it in the town. What did old Coll want in your field?'
I feel defensive, worried that the locals will side with this vile man who left us in the lurch and ripped us off. After all, he is one of their own kinsmen.
'Our tiles,' I say stiffly.
He clicks his teeth impatiently and pats my shoulder. 'Everyone knows this man. Remember you have many friends here.'
Rafael heads for the hearth and warms himself at the fire. He refuses a drink and says he is just popping by to see the senyor. At the sound of his voice, Alan hurries down the stair and gives him a warm handshake.
'I can't stop,' Rafael says. 'I just want to know you find my rose cuttings this morning OK?'
Alan looks mystified.
'Yes, I leave them in a bag on your porch this morning. A little present for el jardiner – the gardener. You no find?'
I exchange horrified looks with my Scottish jardiner, whose gardening prowess has obviously failed to make the distinction between kindling twigs and rose cuttings. We both turn to face the raging fire.
'I'm afraid I've made a bit of a blunder...' begins Alan.
It's mid-February and carnival night has arrived. In great excitement we drive up to Catalina's village at about ten in the evening and make our way to Es Turo Restaurant. It is dark outside, and a cool wind whips up the leaves and dust along the cobbled street. Clumsily, like a slapstick comedy trio, we emerge from our car with painted faces and grotesque attire. Alan has two enormous blond plaits dangling from either side of his head, a Viking helmet and a copious yellow beard that has somehow become ensnared in the Velcro fastening of his brown felt costume. His face is covered in boot polish and leather laces run criss-cross up each of his legs. Ollie, in scarlet tights and green bodice, grips a bow and arrow, and is a cross between Peter Pan and Robin Hood. As for me, I'm a hybrid. Korean bride meets gaudy geisha. Back in my twenties, when I worked for a publishing house, I had been sent to Korea on business, returning with a gift of a Hanbok, a traditional wedding outfit in pea green and cyclamen pink silk. For good reason, it never left its packing case, but tonight it has come into its own.
As we walk boldly up the street, clamping wigs firmly to our heads in the wind, there is stifled laughter and looks of bemusement from passing locals who greet us enthusiastically but have no idea who we are. It's so wonderfully therapeutic to make a complete fool of oneself and know that nobody gives a damn. We enter the restaurant to the cheers of similarly ridiculously attired friends who have arrived ahead of us. Catalina, Ramon and our Australian friends, Jack and Sarah, have cunningly attired themselves in yashmaks and flowing black gowns while a group of young girls dressed as bruixes sit cackling together at the next table, swaddled in black and wearing trademark knobbly noses, pointed black hats and blood red finger nails. Weekend trippers and foreign visitors not accustomed to Carnival mayhem, observe us nervously from their tables, desperately trying not to catch our attention. Xisca emerges from the kitchen and lets out a howl of bawdy laughter, calling her husband to come and view the odd-balls gathering under their roof. Mischievously, Catalina gets up and runs into the kitchen like a wild black ghoul, arms outspread, and causes havoc among the backroom staff as they scream and drop saucepans at the sudden apparition in their midst. Peals of hysterical laughter can be heard from within when they see that it is their very own chef. As the hour gets later, more and more heavily disguised locals enter, nonchalantly sitting down at tables and ordering their food. Locals don't give them a second glance. There are Elvis look-alikes, transvestites, popes and vicars, vampires and a good smattering of prostitutes whom we assume are fakes. As we settle our bill and are ready to leave, an earnest, preppy American diner braves approaching our table and whispers confidentially, 'Excuse me, is this what normally happens up here on a Saturday night?'
I keep my face deadpan, although the others have also listened and spoil the effect by bursting into giggles. 'Oh yes, it's just a slice of mountain life. Saturday night is always party night.'
He politely thanks me and heads back to his table, faithfully repeating my words to his unnerved partner. They pay their bill hurriedly, wave goodbye and make a speedy exit. The restaurant erupts into laughter.
Some time after, we make our way in the cold to the underground garage on the outskirts of the village where the Carnival party is being held. It is nearly midnight and the place is already packed with unrecognisable locals. Paper chains and bunting have been strung from walls and ceiling, and large gas heaters now blaze along one side of the dank building. Small fairy lights hang from a flex that has been slung from one end of the garage to the other, but afford little light. Against the far back wall, a jazz band is belting out music and by the entrance a makeshift bar has been rigged up from which three local volunteers battle to take drink orders from the jostling throng pressing against the counter. I see Juan, the village batle, leaning against a wall and rush over to greet him. He rears back for a moment, flustered by the vision of a tall black wig, white face and pea green and pink silk swimming towards him. With relief etched on his face, he suddenly twigs it's me when he sees Ollie hol
ding my hand, and gives me a hug.
'Heavens!' he chuckles, 'I can't believe it's you.'
I upbraid him for not having dressed up himself but he tuts and gives me a little frown. 'But I'm the batle!'
I am, of course, forgetting village protocol which would probably regard a costume-clad mayor with the same derision as it would a middle-aged senyora wearing a miniskirt and fishnets.
I spy the local traffic warden sitting on a chair by the bar, who, with a nice touch of irony, has dressed as an angel. She puffs on a cigarette, her fluffy wings squashed back behind her, and talks closely with a chunky Julius Caesar who blows me a kiss, but I can't for the life of me think who it is.
Catalina's mother and father, Marta and Paco, now make their appearance at the party. Both are wearing thick jumpers, jackets and scarves and grinning broadly. Paco greets Alan and shakes his head with mirth when he sees me standing behind him. I greet him and his wife, trying not to smother them with white face paint as I bend to kiss them.
Marta gives a little laugh. 'I hope everyone makes the most of tonight because they've got forty days of Cuaresma to look forward to now.'
The end of the Carnival always signifies the beginning of Lent. A distant childhood memory floods back to me when my sister and I were banned sweets for what seemed like an eternity, all in the name of Lent.
'Does everyone fast in the village?' I ask with surprise.
'Heavens no!' cuts in Paco, 'Things have changed, few people fast now. Many years ago we all used to give up meat for Lent but the wealthy in our village gave a backhander to the priest and carried on as normal.' He finds this amusing and tips his head back and laughs raucously.
There's a sudden cry of joy and a frisson of excitement as a tall, ample bosomed woman appears dramatically in the garage doorway wearing a Marilyn Monroe blond wig, a devilishly figure-clinging red dress and a pair of lethally high black stilettos. Her lips are lavishly coated red and she dangles a cigarette holder between two exquisitely manicured fingers. Despite the perfectly applied make-up and disguise, the villagers are not fooled, for this is clever, quick-witted Cati, mother of three, owner of a local bodega, wine store, and one of the liveliest personatges in the area for whom chutzpah is a byword. To my delight I got to know the voluptuous Cati through the village holiday school attended by Ollie in the summer. With great aplomb, she struts to the centre of the garage, hand on hip, haughtily surveying her audience. The crowds gape at her in awe and there is a sudden hush when she raises her hand for attention.
'Well,' she drawls with a wicked grin. 'I take it I'm just in time to win the best costume award, or is there,' she purrs provocatively, 'anyone who'd like to challenge me this year?'
There is applause and wolf whistles but no one dares step forward. 'Good,' she says crisply.
Satisfied that she is to remain Carnival Queen for another year, Cati takes a bow and with a flash of white teeth, saunters off to talk to some friends.
Up in Catalina's village, we sit drinking coffees in Aina's cosy bar by the square. Several wooden tables and chairs have been set up outside but, despite the blue skies, it is chilly and everyone huddles inside. As always the place is a hub of activity with children running noisily up to the counter for packets of crisps and sweets while Aina attempts to dish out coffees and plates of pa amb oli, a traditional Mallorcan plate of bread, rubbed with garlic and olive oil, to various regulars. Catalina pushes open the door, engages in a lengthy and animated conversation, punctuated by gales of laughter with a table full of villagers by the window, and then comes over to join us.
'What was all that about?' I ask.
'Everyone is talking about the English man who bought the restaurant on the other side of the square. I told you about this man.'
'The one who everyone hates?'
'Well, he doesn't like any of us. Anyway, yesterday he closes his bar forever so everyone is very happy.'
The tale of the snooty Englishman and his fanciful Polish wife who, the previous year, took over the running of a local restaurant and then proceeded to alienate everyone in the village, is a story which has done the rounds. This couple, like a pair of lost aliens, had landed, unannounced, in the village one balmy summer's day and taken up residence at the erstwhile abandoned restaurant. They had previously, so rumour has it, run a small bistro in the Home Counties, and decided to bring their interpretation of cordon bleu to the mountains probably in the same way that missionaries attempted to bring Christianity to remote Amerindian tribes. At their opening party, they had exclusively invited only English speaking residents, dismissed the local clientele as a bunch of pagès and disastrously attempted to launch an English-speaking residents' club. Not only did this have the effect of enraging all the locals but also the long established English-speaking residents – American, British and Australians – who were utterly appalled at their boorish behaviour, having for many years been assimilated into the local community themselves. From that moment onwards the restaurant was doomed to failure. No one set foot in the place except the odd unsuspecting tourist and soon it was obvious it would have to close. The villagers went about their business, listening with satisfaction to the gossip of the delivery men who, privy to the dwindling orders placed by the restaurant, predicted that it would soon be on its uppers.
'So, if the restaurant's closed down, does that mean the couple will leave the village?'
Catalina regards me thoughtfully. 'Of course. There is nothing for them here. They have no friends. Yes, they will go.'
'What about the restaurant?'
She shakes her head. 'Another foreigner will buy it and lose money and then another. It has always been like this. No Mallorcan will touch it.'
Given its ill-fated past, I find it peculiar that outsiders are willing to jack in their life's savings to buy the place.
'The thing is,' says Catalina, using her most endearing of favoured English expressions, 'Foreigners come here wanting to live their dream. They open bars and restaurants and they behave as if they're on holiday. But they're not. Work is work and bills are bills wherever you are. We work hard but these people, they believe it's all sitting in the sun, drinking vino. Look at Aina,' she tilts her head towards the bar. I watch Aina cleaning down the laminate work surface by the sink. She seems tired and careworn, but still manages to share a joke with a customer hunched over the bar. How she juggles running the bar with family life and caring for her children, I will never know.
'She hasn't had a holiday for years. She takes maybe two mornings off a week. This is real life not a holiday.'
Alan puts down his copy of Ultima Hora, gives Catalina's arm a squeeze and says jokingly, 'So you don't think it's worth our making them an offer, then?'
She looks momentarily confused, and then with a growl of laughter, elbows him in the ribs.
THIRTEEN
TOAD IN THE HOLE
Alan is standing in the garden, sleeves rolled up with his nose in the air and his eye fixed on the verdant hills. There is a sniff of spring and the burros are braying madly from a nearby field while Rafael's cockerels, with their harems of hens, strut up and down on the track having made an earlier bid for freedom and just squeezed their way through a hole in his orchard fence. One comes to inspect our courtyard, goosestepping around its perimeter, sniffing at the gravel in apparent disapproval and cocking its head from side to side. It squawks at Inko who surveys it with disdain before slinking off to the back terrace in search of a good spot for sunbathing. It is already warm enough to don shorts and sunglasses and so it isn't long before Alan finds an excuse to appear in the kitchen for a glass of water. Catalina regards him harshly.
'Water already? You've only been digging for an hour. When are you planting the vegetables?'
'That a girl!' I taunt.
'If you must know, I'm finishing weeding in the garden then I'm off to plant the summer veg. I never get a break around here.'
'It's a hard life!' chuckles Catalina. 'Anyway out of my way or I'l
l brand you with the iron.'
Alan skips around the flex as water sizzles and steam rises as she pounds at the ironing board.
'It's a good day for drying,' she murmurs to herself. 'This afternoon I pick up the girls from my mum's house and we go to the Fira de Fang.'
A Lizard In My Luggage Page 25